


Proving Ground (The Rush of Blood Remix)

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Hazing, Knifeplay, M/M, Mirror Universe, Paddling, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-23
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pavel Chekov has a plan to join the most prestigious fraternity at the Imperial Academy. Despite the brothers’ rigorous system of testing new recruits, Chekov is determined to prove himself worthy, no matter the cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [echoinautumn (maybetwice)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rush Week](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8125) by echoinautumn. 



> Written for the [](http://issenterprise.livejournal.com/profile)[**issenterprise**](http://issenterprise.livejournal.com/) Mirror!verse Remix Challenge. Inspired by [](http://echoinautumn.livejournal.com/profile)[**echoinautumn**](http://echoinautumn.livejournal.com/)’s incredibly delightful [Rush Week](http://echoinautumn.livejournal.com/43657.html). Thanks to [](http://vellum.livejournal.com/profile)[**vellum**](http://vellum.livejournal.com/) for the beta and [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for all the pep talks. Also, for [](http://kink-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.livejournal.com/)
> 
> **Content Advisory:** hazing, threats of physical and sexual violence, actual violence and mayhem, general mirror!verse nastiness. Specific kinks are listed in the end-notes, in case you prefer to avoid spoilers.

Chekov re-adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag to surreptitiously check if the blade concealed against his belt was still in place at the small of his back. In return the warm, flat metal pressed against his skin, a comforting weight.

Around him, people passed by in a steady stream: an upperclassman in his sleeveless summer cadet uniform, a trio of fresh-faced girls in civilian clothes, a Tellaraite professor with the gold sash of an officer. The smell of salt rolled in on the ocean breeze, like a vacation resort Chekov had once visited in Yalta. The air was much warmer here than in Moscow; he made a note to himself to see if the change in temperature would affect his pace for distance running.

Chekov had just left his father at the parking lot of Archer Hall, where all the first year male cadets were warehoused in dreary eight-by-eight foot blocks. Andrei Chekov had given him a confident nod and a pat on the back. He couldn’t speak anymore, not since Romulan spies had ripped out his tongue during an interrogation. But Andrei’s stoicism had earned him a reward: a place for his precocious only son at the prestigious Imperial Academy.

Every student here had some pull or political connection; Chekov was not naive enough to imagine that his father’s status as a minor hero offered him any protection. In any case, he needed none. Chekov had a plan. He would earn a place in one of the Academy’s most highly regarded fraternal orders, and enjoy all the benefits thereof as he rose through the ranks.

He passed by the rows of monolithic, mind-numbingly homogeneous dorm buildings until he stood at the foot of the broad stairway leading up to the foreboding facade of Archer Hall. He imagined something different in his future: a large, old-fashioned house on a tree-lined street, fitted with all the modern conveniences and populated by sophisticated, interesting brothers as intelligent as he. Chekov would get there, he knew with absolute confidence. First, he had to prove himself.  
\--

Chekov chose the bed with the best view of the door. His roommate, with whom he’d exchanged a few messages, would have to settle for the more dangerous berth. He’d begun unpacking his books—Sun Tsu’s _The Art of War_ , Machiavelli’s _The Prince_ , Fyedorovna’s latest treatise on modern torture methods—when a shadow darkened his doorway. Chekov turned to face the intruder, casually dropping his hand to within easy reach of his knife.

A large man with an ugly grin on his face stood blocking the hallway. “What have we here?” His close-shaved hair and muscle-bound arms made the man look like a thug; Chekov judged it unlikely that this man had great influence on campus.

“I am a new student,” Chekov said. He reached into his pack to pull out more books, but kept a sliver of attention on his visitor.

“Yeah, I know. Cute, too.”

Chekov chose not to respond. He did take note of the laughter and chatter drifting in from the hallway. Whatever he did, he’d have an audience: all to the good, in his mind.

The large man not-so-subtly took stock of Chekov’s room. “Looks like you haven’t really settled in yet.”

“I have only just arrived. I will make friends.”

“Sure.” The man took a step inside the room. “Runt like you, you’re going to need some help watching your back.”

Now the conversation was moving in the expected direction. Chekov slid down onto his bed and looked up at his visitor. “What do you mean?”

“I bet you don’t know much about how the system works here at the Academy.” The man stuck and his chest and leaned forward, watching Chekov expectantly. “The fraternities are the way to keep yourself protected.”

Chekov held back a smile. Of course he’d studied all the campus fraternities to decide which one would best suit his talents. He’d also done research on the rival fraternities in his usual thorough manner. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d peg this specimen as a Tau Kappa Phi; those brothers had a reputation for favoring blunt force as a problem-solving strategy. Still, there was no need for Chekov to tip his hand just yet. Instead, he widened his eyes and let his mouth drop open slightly. “What fraternities?”

“There are a few on campus. Some better than others. Then there’s mine. TKP.” He stuck out his chest farther, which Chekov hadn’t thought was possible. “In our fraternity, brothers look out for each other and stick together. We made sure our brothers avoid any… trouble.”

Chekov licked his hips and let more of his natural accent creep into his voice. “What kind of trouble?”

His visitor grinned and lumbered two steps closer. “All kinds of stuff can happen when you’re on your own for the first time, right kid? A frat can give you a place to belong. People you can count on. If you don’t have brothers… Well, I imagine a pretty thing like you--.”

Chekov didn’t wait for the dolt to finish that thought. He hooked his foot under the guy’s knee and pulled even as he lunged forward with a shout, aiming a blow with the heel of his hand right for the solar plexus. When the guy went down—and he went down hard—Chekov rushed forward and planted his foot carefully across the man’s thick throat.

Footsteps pounded down the hall. Chekov’s doorway filled with curious faces. The man tried to rise, but Chekov shifted more weight onto his foot, and the man stilled. He might have felt sorry for this man for having his humiliation witnessed by so many, but this was necessary to build Chekov’s reputation. Besides, this man should not have been so stupid to assume that Chekov would be at the Academy if he was the pathetic creature he’d been impersonating.

“You will not bother me again,” he said, taking care to enunciate clearly for the benefit of the onlookers. “Clear?”

The man’s hand twitched, as if he might attempt a strike. Chekov shifted his weight forward, pressing down on his throat and eliciting a pained grunt. “Clear?”

The man managed a strangled, “Clear.”

Chekov nodded and stepped out of the reach of his victim. The crowd in the doorway leaned forward. This was the most dangerous moment. The man would either decide to leave with the remainder of his dignity to make a plan for retaliation, or attempt to regain his honor immediately by defeating Chekov in front of an audience. The man stumbled to his feet and brushed off his clothes. He turned toward Chekov.

Chekov’s hand hung casually near his concealed knife. Slitting a man’s throat on the first day might establish a fearsome reputation, but doing so publically might draw unwanted attention from the administration. He’d rather not kill this man, but he would if he must.

Just at the moment when the man looked as if he might move, a voice rang out from the doorway. “Hey Cupcake! Getting a good look at the new prospects?”

Into the room stepped a man with piercing blue eyes and an amused grin. Right behind him came an equally amused cadet, this one dark-haired with the muscular build of a dancer or a wrestler. Chekov recognized the emblem on their blood-red shirts: DXT, for Delta Xi Theta. These were fraternity brothers from the most prestigious organization on campus: the golden boys of the Imperial Academy, who went on to get their pick of desirable posts, and who Chekov was determined to join.

“Back off, Kirk.” The man—Cupcake—turned to face the intruders. “I’ll recruit whoever I want.”

“Yeah.” Kirk’s smile widened. “You can try.” He waved both hands at the others crowding the doorway. “Remember, kiddies, rush starts next week. Hope to see you all at Delta House on Monday at nineteen hundred hours. No matter what anyone tells you, no recruiting is supposed to go on until then. So if anyone tries, you be sure to report it. Dean Pike—that’s Captain to you, Cupcake—doesn’t take too kindly to frats that break his rules.” He looked over his shoulder to wink at Cupcake.

The dark-haired cadet said, “Don’t you all still have some moving in to do?”

The onlookers scattered. Cupcake straightened up to his full height, shot Kirk a venomous glare, and stomped out of the room.

Kirk looked Chekov up and down. His smile faded. “Monday. Nineteen hundred. Delta House.”

“Be seeing you,” said his friend.

The two walked out, and Chekov found himself alone. His knife went back into its concealed sheath, and Chekov’s adrenaline high began to taper off.

The doorway darkened again, and Chekov rose quickly, half-expecting Cupcake to have doubled back. But there stood only a smallish young man with wildly disheveled hair, thick glasses, and an enormous pack slung over his back. “You Chekov?”

Chekov nodded slowly.

“Good.” With effort, he slung his pack onto the floor. “I’m in the right place.”  
\--

That evening, after engaging in perfunctory niceties with his new roommate, Vincent, Chekov went to the campus library to access the special electronic archives. With a little searching, he found a photograph of last year’s DXT officers. He should really have recognized the ones who’d been in his room that morning. Kirk was, of course, James T. Kirk, the president of DXT. The other man had been Hikaru Sulu, DXT’s Discipline Coordinator two years running.

Chekov replayed every step of their encounter in his mind, scrutinizing his actions for flaws. He had intended the incident to make an impression on his year-mates. He hadn’t considered that the president of his chosen brotherhood would be present. In his recollection, his actions still seemed the best response to the situation. Hopefully they wouldn’t count against his hopes to become a brother.

Chekov carefully studied last year’s photographs, paying special attention to those brothers who hadn’t been seniors, and therefore would presumably still be a part of the brotherhood. He wanted to be well prepared for Monday night.  
\--

MONDAY

Chekov adjusted the route of his morning run to carry him past Delta House. It looked much as he’d imagined: huge and old-fashioned, grand rather than monolithic, and situated on a tree-lined street that seemed somehow more solemn than the campus itself. He occupied the rest of his run with generating maps of run routes for next year, when he would live there.

That evening, having planned his course in advance, he timed his arrival at Delta House for two minutes to seven. Young men crowded the lawn outside. Chekov scanned the crowd and picked out several faces he’d memorized from the archival photographs: S'chn T'gai Spock , the tall and solemn vice president of DXT and one of the few Vulcans on campus; McCoy, a medical track cadet whom everyone called Bones, and there, at the edge of the crowd, talking to some young cadets, Sulu.

“I thought I’d see you here.” Chekov turned to see Jim Kirk looking him over with a predatory smirk. “Aren’t you a little young to be a cadet?”

“Old enough.” Chekov lifted his chin and kept eye contact with the fraternity’s blue eyed president. “I get along.”

“Roo!” Kirk shouted.

Chekov wondered if that was some sort of insult.

Then Sulu appeared at Kirk’s side, scowling. “Don’t call me that.” He glanced over at Chekov. A half-smile etched itself into his hard face.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Kirk threw an arm around Chekov’s shoulder. “Our little scrapper.”

“My name is Chekov,” he said evenly.

“I know.” Sulu extended his hand for Chekov to shake. “Hikaru Sulu. That’s Jim Kirk.”

“I know.”

Sulu’s half smile grew sharper.

Kirk shot Sulu an unreadable look. “Get him checked in. We’ll start in two.” He disappeared into the crowd.

Sulu handed Chekov a padd and stylus. “Here’s the sign up. You _are_ here to rush, not just to fawn over Kirk?”

“Fawn?” Chekov couldn’t help his incredulous reaction, and he knew Sulu noticed. “No.” He quickly took the padd and began to enter his information. He didn’t bother looking up to say, “More than rush. I intend to become a brother.” He handed the padd back to the still enigmatically smiling Sulu.

“We’ll see.”

The crowd hushed as Kirk mounted the stairs to the house and turned out to face the onlookers. Judging from his easy grin, Chekov would wager he hadn’t prepared a word of this speech in advance.

“Welcome to one of my favorite weeks. Delta Xi Theta carries our tradition of excellence all year, but this is the only time you,” he pointed at a huddle of fidgeting cadets in the front row, “Have a chance to become one of us. The lives of those we choose will be forever changed. You’ll be one of an elite brotherhood, and you’ll never be alone again. Once you’re DXT, you have loyalty for life. So this week, the chance for reward is great, but so is the risk. If a brother tells you to do something, you do it. Understand?”

A tentative “yes sir” rattled through the crowd. Chekov did not participate. He saw Sulu note his silence.

“More details about the week will be sent to your padds. For tonight, we welcome you to our home. Let’s do this.”

Kirk pulled open the huge, old-fashioned front doors to the house. The crowd surged forward. Chekov held back, observing. He had yet to see anyone among the rushes that he considered serious competition. Tonight his time would be better spent getting to know the DXT brothers; he wouldn’t bother sizing up his rivals unless one became a threat. Thus decided, he started to head inside when he realized Sulu was still watching him.

“Yes?” he said carefully.

“You’re a funny kid, Pavel Chekov.” Sulu clapped him on the shoulder and walked off.

Chekov had already begun to follow when he remembered he’d introduced himself by last name only. He warmed at the idea that Hikaru Sulu had bothered to look him up.  
\--

Spock hauled the collapsed rush off the table by the back of his shirt and hauled him away from the table. Chekov wasn’t sure how many drinks the man had managed, but he’d at least put up a valiant fight against Spock. Too bad the kid hadn’t realized the futility of engaging in a drinking contest with a Vulcan.

“Who’s next?” Kirk scanned the crowd. His eyes caught on Chekov. “You.” He stretched out his hand to point. “Come on, little Russian. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Chekov pushed his way forward through the crowd to take his place at the table. At the head of the table, Bones, who up close was scruffy and broad-shouldered, said, “For God’s sake, Jim, the kid can’t weigh more than one ten soaking wet!”

Chekov seated himself at the table and looked up at Bones with exaggerated dignity. “Do not worry. The Russians invented drinking games.”

“See? Fair match.” Kirk laughed and punched Bones in the ribs affectionately.

Sulu appeared from somewhere behind Bones and handed him a fresh bottle of some amber liquid. “Has he paid the entry fee?”

“Not yet.” Kirk settled back in his chair with a dangerous smirk.

“Here.” Sulu snatched a die off the sticky surface of the table and dropped it in Chekov’s hand. “Roll it.”

Chekov looked down at the die. He hadn’t witness the start of the last game; he’d been off watching a brother named Scotty put together a bong from some used poly-synthetic cups and a discarded brassiere. He had no idea how this contest worked, but he had confidence in his ability to pick it up as he went along. He rolled the die.

“Five!” Sulu crowed.

“Good Christ,” Bones muttered. He lined up five shot glasses across the edge of the table and filled them all from the bottle Sulu had brought. “Remember kid, this ain’t vodka.”

“What is it?” Chekov peered curiously at the unlabeled bottle.

“Some whiskey-like concoction that Scotty makes in that still of his,” Bones explained. “Probably not poisonous.”

“Nah, it’s good,” Kirk said. “Bottoms up, kid.”

Chekov looked at the line of shots and quickly estimated their effect on his response time and judgment. He fervently regretted consuming a variety of drinks with other brothers earlier tonight. He grabbed the first shot and held it aloft. “Za pobedi,” he said. He threw back the shot and hardly registered the burn in his throat before he slammed down that glass and grabbed the next. All the shots were gone in under a minute.

From across the table, Kirk watched him with an expression of apparently mixed admiration and pity. “All right. Let’s get started. Spock!”

Spock came weaving through the crowd holding a fully set up chess set in a remarkable balancing feat. He slid it gracefully onto the table between Chekov and Kirk. “Gentlemen, I believe you’re familiar with the rules?”  
\--

Chekov frowned at his bishop. He knew Kirk had done something important with his rook in that last move, but he couldn’t see the end game. That was bad. His papa had always told him to know his enemy’s end game. His hand went sluggishly to the bishop; he picked it up on the third try. He turned the cool piece over in his hand as his eyes scanned the chess board.

From behind him, Sulu dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Sure you know what you’re doing there?”

He sounded amused, which made Chekov scowl. Four of his pawns, both knights, and a rook lay lined along the edge of the table next to the shot glass he’d had to empty each time he lost a piece. Kirk certainly seemed well-versed in chess strategy. Also, he seemed unaffected by the vile moonshine Bones kept pouring him. Still, Chekov knew he could win this game if he could just _think_ through the muzzy softness that pervaded his brain. He turned to fix Sulu with the most derisive glare he could muster. “I have been playing chess since you were still clinging to your mother’s apron strings. I do ‘know what I am doing,’ thank you.”

Chekov paused just long enough to watch Sulu’s expression shift to surprise before he returned his attention to the game. The little distraction had cleared his head, and he could see now what Kirk was attempting. He plopped his bishop back on the board, threatening Kirk’s knight.

“That’s it, kid.” McCoy poured another shot and held on to it. “A little overconfidence never hurt anyone, right Jim?”

“Never.” Kirk grinned and moved out his queen, just as Chekov had expected.

Chekov nudged his remaining rook forward. “Check.”

“Suit yourself,” Sulu said. He patted Chekov’s shoulder once more. “You’ll see.” He moved off into the crowd.

Kirk laughed. He moved his king aside, out of harm’s way, and leaned back in his chair. “You know, you’re doing pretty well for having so much of Scotty’s battery acid in you.”

Chekov tightened his jaw. He was playing better than “pretty well.” He could taste victory, even through the astringent flavor of alcohol. His eyes caught on a gap in Kirk’s defenses. With an anticipatory smile, he picked up his queen and dropped it out of reach of Kirk’s knight, right in position to take the king next turn. Certainly Kirk had no way to win now.

Kirk grinned, and took his turn. “Checkmate.”

Chekov stared at the bishop Kirk had just moved. Then at Kirk’s rook and the knight positioned to cut off his king’s retreat. The reality of the loss took several seconds to penetrate the fog of Chekov’s intoxication.

Kirk picked up an empty shot glass and held it up for Bones to pour. Someone shoved a glass into Chekov’s hand, and Kirk clinked glasses. “Good game, kid. What’s your name again?”

“Chekov. Pavel Andreivich.” He had enough luck left to remember that, at least.

“Alright, Chekov.” Kirk threw back his drink and watched until Chekov followed suit. “You can come back tomorrow.”  
\--

Chekov kicked off his shoes and squinted at his bed, trying to remember its function. Vincent was speaking, but Chekov had tuned out the flow of words after the first sentence about tonight’s party at Gamma Epsilon Mu. The way his head felt now, he wasn’t sure he would ever again have the brain cells to spare to remember anything other than how to lose at chess.

Eventually, Vincent seemed to notice his lack of response. “How’d it go at Delta House?” he asked.

Chekov was saved from having to make a response when his padd beeped to alert him to an incoming message. The text came from _Sulu, Hikaru_ , and Chekov’s booze-soaked brain had to work to interpret it:

_DXT Rush Week Schedule_

_Monday: Game night  
Tuesday: Public service project  
Wednesday: Written exam  
Thursday: Field night  
Friday: Beach BBQ_

_19:00 nightly, Delta House_

_Lateness will not be tolerated._

_Pledge invitations sent Saturday._

_\- HS_

_P.S. Looks like you don’t know what you’re doing after all.  
_

“Well,” Chekov said to Vincent, who still seemed to be waiting for an answer. “It went well.”

Chekov stumbled over to his bed, fell into it, and dreamed of impressing Sulu with his prowess every one of those cryptically named activities.  
\--

TUESDAY

Chekov spent much of the day popping pain pills and wincing at sunlight and loud noises. By evening, he had finally begun to feel human again.

When he arrived at Delta House at ten minutes to 19:00, the door was unlocked. Inside, he followed the sounds of talking and laughter to the living area, the site of his ignominious defeat the night before.

Kirk emerged from a group of brothers standing around and drinking. “Chekov.” He pointed to a pile of data sticks on a low table. “Pick one.”

Chekov took the nearest one without hesitation. He saw no point in speculating as to their content or significance, and vacillating would only make him look weak.

He offered the stick to Kirk, but Kirk only shook his head. He turned back to the group. “Roo!” he called.

Sulu detached himself from the general revelry and came toward Kirk with heavy steps. “I told you--.”

“You’re with the Russian,” Kirk interrupted. “Have fun.”

Sulu held Kirk’s eyes for a moment longer than was comfortable. Then he snatched the data stick from Chekov’s hand, grabbed Chekov by the wrist, and dragged him out the door.

Once outside, Chekov tugged his arm free. “I do not need to be led around like a child,” he snapped.

“I wouldn’t think so.” Sulu’s scowl melted into something more contemplative. He kept moving, but made no further move to shepherd Chekov. They reached central part of the Academy campus, and Sulu stopped in the shadow of the biology building’s greenhouse. He turned his serious gaze on Chekov. Chekov hadn’t known eyes could look so dark. “Tonight’s test is a public service project. You need to do something for us.”

“What is this ‘something?’”

We need to know how far you’re willing to go for the brotherhood. Do you understand what loyalty means, little man?”

Perhaps the mocking term got under his skin, or perhaps he’d simply reached his limit of tolerance for Sulu’s derisive treatment. In any case, Chekov felt a fierce urge to not only prove his worth to the brotherhood, but to show Sulu that his skills were beyond reproach. “I understand more than you know,” he snapped.

“Prove it.” Sulu held out the data stick from the pile at the house.

Chekov snatched it deftly from his hand and shoved it into his personal padd. Almost immediately, up come stats on Elias Gandrin, a low-level administrator in academic affairs: pictures, contact information, schedule, schematics of his apartment and his office. Loyalty. A test.

Chekov searched Sulu’s face for clues, but Sulu kept his expression meticulously blank. Apparently he expected Chekov to draw his own conclusions. He looked again at the data: medical history, known allergies, combat proficiencies on record. All the information an assassin needed. When he glanced up at Sulu, he realized his heart had begun to pound against his ribs. “What has this man done to DXT?”

“Yours is not to reason why,” Sulu said crisply.

“No no.” Chekov held up a hand to stop Sulu. “I only mean that if we are to send a message, it is best to relate the retribution to the crime, yes?”

“Yes.” Sulu’s eyes remained unreadable, but Chekov thought he caught the slight pull of a smile at the corner of Sulu’s mouth. “He tampered with four brothers’ records to get them on academic probation, then requested favors to correct the mistake.”

“I see.” Contingency plans spun through Chekov’s mind. He didn’t want to show Sulu all his tricks, in case he became an enemy at some point. However, he wanted to do well enough to impress Sulu and the other brothers. And then there was always the possibility that DXT was using him as a pawn, and would disavow any knowledge of his actions. Or perhaps they were testing him to see how easily he could be manipulated into taking on dirty work. If he was going to do what he thought they were asking of him, he’d have to cover his tracks well.

Chekov paused to consider what he might do if he were attempting to weed out weak prospective members. The logical course would be to require candidates to display the traits most highly valued by the brotherhood: cunning, ruthlessness, and loyalty. He glanced once more at the information scrolling across his padd, then up at Sulu. “I hope you can keep up.”  
\--

According to the schedule, Gandrin worked late (and more importantly, alone) on Tuesdays. With Sulu in tow, Chekov walked right up to the front door of the main administration building, bold as brass. “You should wait here. I will only be a moment.”

“I need to observe you the whole time.” Sulu stopped him with a hand curled around his arm.

Chekov reconsidered this in regards to this plan, and shook his head. “Impossible to get in with more than one. But I tell you what I will do, and you will believe when you see it happen.”

“How do I know you’re not going to slip away and contact someone to do the job for you?”

“Who would I call?” Chekov asked. At the surprised expression on Sulu’s face, Chekov realized his mistake. Sulu had a house full of brothers to call on for favors; Chekov had no one. He didn’t want his lack of political connections to count against him as prospective pledge. More than that, he did not want Sulu to think of him as a lonely person. He should not have drawn Sulu’s attention to that inequity. He quickly went on. “Besides, I promise when I kill him you will be watching.”

Sulu nodded, satisfied.

“Good. I will tell the desk attendant I forgot something in the building for a professor. He will be very angry if I forget. She will let me in without checking my ID.”

“Will she,” Sulu said skeptically.

Chekov scrubbed a hand through his hair to tousle it, slouched, and looked up at Sulu with wide, frightened eyes. “Please! I must to get this folder for Meester Spolin, or he will be wery angry!” Chekov squinted to force a tear and affected a deep, shuddery breath. “You do not know what he is like, what he will do--!”

“Okay, okay.” Sulu laughed and held up his hands in mock defeat. “That gets you in. Then what?”

“I disable the lock on one of the service doors at the rear of the building, here.” Chekov pointed to the map on his padd. “I grab a file, come out, thank the desk attendant profusely so she remembers I left at such-and-such a time. Then I return to you and we begin our real work.”

“Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got.”  
\--

Sneaking in the back door Chekov had opened posed no problem. Chekov had always been good with maps; he easily led Sulu through the labyrinth of service corridors to an unlocked stairwell. As they climbed the stairs, Chekov went over his plan in his head, looking for flaws.

“Tell me something, kid,” Sulu said. His low-pitched voice seemed perfectly pitched not to disturb the quiet of the building. “You ever done this before? Killed a man?”

Chekov looked back at Sulu, whose eyes were dark in the dim light of the stairwell. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Have you?”

“I’m just saying that you’d better think about if this is what you really want.”

Chekov stopped and turned back. “Did you do this when you rushed DXT?”

“Yes,” Sulu said simply.

“It is not a difficult thing, to take a man’s life.” It had been, once. Chekov remembered the struggle to force knife through bone with childishly weak hands too small to properly fit the grip of his knife. He’d never seen Sulu handle a blade, but he had trouble imagining him young and clumsy, or frightened as Chekov had been when his very first kill bled out beneath him, watching the light drain from his eyes and knowing how easily he could have been the one cold on the floor.

The memory sent a shiver through him before he could suppress it. He hoped Sulu had missed it in the low light. “The main thing,” Chekov went on quickly, “Is to make sure the death is necessary for one’s goals. DXT wants to send a message, so I will do this.” He resumed climbing the stairs. “Once Gandrin is dead I can use his computer to correct the mistake he made. I will also send a notice signed by him to the dean apologizing for the mistake. Then it will be obvious why he was killed.”

“You don’t think that might lead an investigator back to DXT?”

“Are you concerned more about an investigator, or about maintaining the brotherhood’s reputation?”

“You’re cute.” Sulu stopped again. Chekov turned around to see Sulu wearing that inscrutable, infuriating half smile.

Chekov made a rude gesture and kept walking. His heart had begun pounding again.

The sixth floor hallway was dark. At the entrance to the office adjacent to Gandrin’s, Chekov paused, and Sulu came to a halt behind him. Decoding the lock took longer than Chekov would have liked, but eventually the door popped open. Chekov waved Sulu through. “After you.”

Sulu paused fractionally, probably wondering if Chekov planned to knife him in the back. Chekov could hardly fault him for that. Sulu bowed gallantly and glided past Chekov into the room. He moved completely silently. Chekov spared a thought for how Sulu must look when on the hunt: intent on his prey and nearly invisible in the shadows. He put such distractions out of his mind and followed.

Pale light filtering through the window made the empty office marginally lighter than the hallway. Chekov went right to the glass-paneled door that led onto the patio. He found the lock panel mounted on the wall and motioned Sulu over. “From here, I will disengage the patio locks for the whole floor. Just a moment.” He pried off the panel cover with the flat of his knife and set to work. Sulu stood over his shoulder, observing silently. Next to them, the patio door gave a quiet hiss.

“There.” Chekov pushed the door; it glided open. “All right.” He hefted his knife. Now he showed his commitment. He would be giving Sulu and his brothers something to hold over him, but he would also earn their respect. Sulu would see his courage. “Follow close,” he whispered. He slipped out onto the patio with Sulu trailing like a shadow. In the office next door, a single lamp silhouetted a shadowy figure sitting at the desk.

Chekov gauged the distance from door to desk and decided he had little chance of entering the room unnoticed. Speed would be the key. He shifted his grip on his knife, sucked in a breath of the humid night air, and moved. The door slid aside under his hand. His victim had no time to stir before Chekov drove the knife into his throat.

Chekov jerked the knife back immediately. Something was wrong. The knife slid out too easily, with an unpleasant ripping sound and none of the resistance of flesh. Chekov spun away quickly to put his back to the wall and looked around wildly for traps.

There was only Sulu. He leaned in the open doorway and began slowly to clap. Chekov looked from Sulu to the figure in the chair and back, but he couldn’t wrap his head around the situation.

Sulu reached out to press a command on the environmental panel. Light flooded the room. In the desk chair sat propped an effigy of a man, complete with wig and sewn-on, button eyes. A jagged rip marred the cloth throat, right where the trachea would be if he had been a real man.

Chekov couldn’t quite move, still submerged in the adrenaline rush of the hunt and the sudden fear of a trap, and denied the release of a victim’s blood pouring out over his hands.

“You did well.” Sulu walked toward him slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal. He reached out to settle his hand over Chekov’s fist that still clutched his knife, and gently pushed his arm down. “Let’s get you back to the house.”  
\--

Kirk pressed a bottle of beer into Chekov’s hand. “You made it back.”

“Of course.” Chekov flashed a confident smile, but his nerves still thrummed from unexpended energy.

Sulu pried the cap off his beer. “I think he’s disappointed he didn’t get to draw real blood.” He threw a weighty look at Chekov.

Chekov kept smiling and hoped he didn’t show how close to the quick Sulu had cut.

“Well obviously we can’t leave a trail of bodies every rush week,” Bones piped up from the couch. “Pike likes us, but I think he’d frown on that.”

Kirk dropped down beside him. “Some of the guys want me to move kill night back to later in the week, but I believe in separating the wheat from the chaff early. Why bother with rushes who aren’t into the same things we’re into?” He gestured around the room, where only a dozen or so other potential pledges had yet returned. “Efficiency is key.”

The rest of the evening seemed uneventful in comparison. Chekov passed the time trying to drink his lingering adrenaline rush into submission. He sat on the couch listening to Scotty tell stories of sorority girls he’d seduced as a pretext to steal parts from the physics lab. Chekov could barely keep his eyes open by the time the party began to break up.

On his way out the door, Sulu held up his beer bottle in salute. His eyes seemed to see right through Chekov to that place inside still ringing with the need to shed blood. “You--.” He closed his mouth on whatever he’d been about to say and shook his head. Instead, he said, “See you tomorrow, little man.”

Chekov scowled at the nickname. “Goodnight, Roo,” he said, and made a quick exit.

Back at his room, Chekov spared only a glance for Vincent, and quickly determined that he was asleep. He stripped off his clothes and slipped beneath the covers. Chekov blinked at the chrono on his bedside table, which flashed: 03:51. His first class started all too soon, but despite the late hour he was still wired from the evening’s activities.

His naked skin felt itchy and too hot against the thin sheets. If he couldn’t have blood, he’d have to settle himself with a release of a different kind. He wrapped a hand firmly around his half-hard cock, which had been distracting him all evening. He pulled at himself roughly, and quickly brought on a full erection. He smiled as he remembered Kirk’s words: efficiency is key. Thinking of the DXT brothers brought to mind Sulu. Chekov pictured him too easily in his mind’s eye: serious-faced and intent as he’d been on their outing this evening. He moved like an athlete and like a killer. Too quickly, Chekov’s hips slammed up, and he spilled his seed against the sheets. He meant to wipe away the mess, and the mental images that had fuelled his release, but sleep pulled him down and carried him away from such paltry concerns.  
\--

WEDNESDAY

Chekov’s classes passed in a daze. He took notes, but couldn’t have named one of the admirals mentioned in the afternoon’s Imperial History lecture if his membership with DXT depended on it. Instead, he’d feverishly repeated to himself bits and pieces of information from the archival information he’d studied on DXT, in case tonight’s scheduled “written exam” turned out to require knowledge of fraternity trivia.

At nineteen hundred, he dragged himself across campus to Delta House. Inside, rushes—a third fewer than there’d been on Monday—sat spread around the living space. The brothers stood clustered off to the side, talking amongst themselves.

Chekov took a seat and waited, keeping himself deliberately still. The man sitting on the couch to Chekov’s right wiped his hands on his pants nervously. Chekov sifted through his mass of DXT trivia to remember the name of this rush, who he was certain he’d met on Monday. Riley, he was fairly certain.

“Have you studied?” Chekov asked.

“How would I have studied, genius?” Probably-Riley said. “I have no idea what the hell they’re going to test us on.”

“Right.” Chekov gave him a smooth smile, just to see if he could rattle him.

“Sure…” Apparently Riley had an affinity for sniffing out bullshit, because his brow-furrowed look of concern melted into a laugh. “You’re a funny guy, Pavel.”

Chekov had just enough time to wonder what that was supposed to mean before Spock stepped to the center of the room.

“Gentlemen.” Though Spock hadn’t raised his voice above its normal speaking volume, all conversation hushed. “Tonight’s written exam will test your ingenuity and bravery.”

McCoy began handing out a small black cylindrical object to each of the rushes; Chekov couldn’t yet see what they were.

“You are to bring back as many tokens as possible, to be placed on your body,” Spock continued. “Each token will be assigned a point value based on the status of its bestower and the location on which it is transcribed.”

Across the room from Chekov, another rush, an Andorian, spoke up. “What kind of token?”

“A signature.” Spock held up one of the items McCoy was distributing, and Chekov at last recognized it as an old-fashioned writing device.

McCoy tapped Chekov on the nose with his marker before handing it to him. “Don’t worry, kid. A little ink is good for the skin.”  
\--

Chekov had a plan. He’d memorized the map of campus and the surrounding area as soon as he’d known he was enrolling in the Academy, so he knew exactly where to go.

Riley, following close behind him, had no such advantage. “I’m telling you, freshmen girls. Tell them we’re with DXT, they’ll give us whatever we want.”

Chekov gripped his marker hard and forged ahead, past the edge of campus and onto a narrow street overhung by towering oak trees.

Riley stopped short where the sidewalk turned. “Nu uh, man. I am not going in there.”

Chekov paused. It made no difference to him whether Riley accompanied him or not, but he wanted to experiment with the concept of working together for when he had the DXT brothers as allies. “It’s a sorority. There will be many women.”

“No way.” Riley crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet. “Those sisters are ruthless. They’ll tear you apart.”

“We will get more points for Lambdas.”

“We’ll stay alive if we get more signatures from girls who are a little less fond of knives.”

Chekov shrugged and continued up the path.

“Chekov! Pavel!” Riley followed him a few steps, then shook his head and turned back. “Fine. One less competitor.”

Chekov straightened his back and pressed the chime at the side of the entry. After only a few seconds, an Orion girl threw open the door. She looked him over with the eye of a predator. “Trick or treat.” She leaned against the side of the door. “What do you want?”

“I am here to see Nyota Uhura.”

“Uhura?” An amused smile blinked into existence in the mist of her delicate features. “Why should she want to see you?”

“I have a message for her. I have just come from Delta House.”

The woman’s bright eyes widened, and her smile curled up further. “Stay.” She slammed the door in his face.

Chekov glanced over his shoulder to see Riley give him a sympathetic wave from twenty yards down the path in the fading twilight. Chekov turned back to the door. He didn’t have long to wait before the Orion threw it open again.

“Come in,” she said sweetly.

The foyer behind her was dark. Any number of enemies could be lurking there. Chekov readied himself, and stepped forward. The moment he crossed the threshold, strong hands seized and held him while other hands patted him down. He fought the instinct to struggle: here in the lion’s den, resistance would only assure his death. Fingers slid beneath his shirt and snatched away the knife concealed at his back. More fingers ferreted out the knife in his boot and pulled it out. Then the hands withdrew and the lights flipped on.

The Orion stood nearest the door, but now there were two other women, both blondes: one with an elaborately piled hair-do, and another whose blue eyes were sharp with suspicion.

The Orion held up Chekov’s knife: the one that had been concealed at his back, the one that had belonged to his grandfather. “You said the Deltas sent you?”

“I said I had come from Delta House. I am here to see Nyota Uhura.”

“What’s all the fuss?”

The first thing Chekov noticed about the woman was her legs. As she descended the lengthy staircase, they seemed endlessly long and smooth. He had seen pictures of her at DXT events in the archives, but in the flesh her beauty was even more apparent. Chekov could understand, objectively, why her favor would be sought after.

“Boy came to visit and brought his weapons.” The Orion woman held up the knife. “Not very polite.”

“Oh Gaila. Did you expect the little lamb to walk around campus without any protection at all?” She reached the bottom of the stairs and held out her hand. Gaila laid the knife on top of her palm. Uhura regarded it critically. “This is Russian military. Well taken care of, too.” She looked up a Chekov. “Kak tebya zavut?” she asked. _What is your name._

“Chekov. Pavel Andreievich.” He hadn’t expected her to speak his native tongue. He should have anticipated that a renowned linguistics student would have proficiency in several common languages. “Ya k vam prishol na pol’zu.”

“A favor?” She’d had no trouble understanding him, then. “You’re bold.”

Taking notes of her amused manner, Chekov decided to alter his tactics. “Ckazali, chto Spock otnositsya k vam.” _I heard that Spock belongs to you._

“Yes, although I don’t know that he’d put it that way.” Her smile thinned. “Did he send you here?”

“No. I came on my own”

“As much as I’m enjoying our guessing game, time is running short, Pavel-chik.” She stepped toward him. The other women closed ranks in a circle around Chekov. “Tell me why you’ve come.”

“I need signatures from women around campus. Naturally I came to the best.”

“It’s rush week.” She sounded thoughtful.

“Yes.”

“Those Deltas never change,” said the woman with the elaborate hair.

“You mean Jim Kirk never changes,” Gaila corrected her.

Chekov held up the marker he’d been given. “You are to sign my body.”

“If you think--,” Gaila began.

“Wait.” Uhura took a quick step forward. “I think we should oblige him.” Her thin smile did not inspire confidence. “Christine, gather the sisters.”  
\--

Chekov stiffly climbed the stairs to Delta House. He pushed the door open and limped into the living room with one minute to spare before the deadline. He was the last to arrive.

The brothers were crowded around Kevin Riley. He had stripped to his shorts. Signatures in black ink scrawled across his torso and legs like tattoos.

“What does this say?” Sulu was asking. “Elena Mahussy? Mucrusty? What?”

Riley strained to see the signature on his shoulder blade. “Uh…”

“Never heard of her,” Kirk said. “No points.”

Riley’s face fell, the perked up again. “No, it was Ma’ha’lai. That’s it! Elena Ma’ha’lai! The daughter of that captured Surrian lord. She’s a second year cadet.”

“There is such a student,” Spock observed.

“Alright, Riley. Three points for that one. That brings us to—what’s the total, Scotty?”

Scott stared at a computer console, manipulating a scoreboard display projected against the far wall. “Ninety one.”

“Nice work,” Kirk said. “Have a seat.” His eyes drifted to Chekov, still standing stiffly near the doorway. “Pavel. Step up.”

“Yes sir.” Chekov concentrated on moving smoothly as he went to stand in front of Kirk. He took little notice of the other rushes already seated around the room, some of whom had ink marking their hands, necks, faces, and any other exposed patch of skin.

“First, we need a report,” Kirk said. “Tell us where you went for your mission.”

“Lambda Phi Omega.”

A hush fell over the room like an unexpected loss of power.

Spock broke the silence. “You simply walked up to the sorority house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This I am dying to see,” Kirk said. “Get your clothes off, Chekov.”

Chekov pulled his shirt over his head carefully, trying not to catch fabric against skin. He shed his pants and briefs and stepped out of them so his audience could get the right impression. He knew the effect would be striking; his pale skin provided an excellent canvas for the bright red signatures that had been etched into his flesh with his own knife: into his chest, down his back, along the inside of his thighs, and beyond.

The watching brothers crowded closer.

“Does that say Janice Rand?” Scott asked.

“Christine Chapel.” McCoy pointed to a signature carved into Chekov’s belly.

Sulu moved around Chekov’s side for a better look at the marks on his back. “Gaila.”

Spock approached and touched his fingertips gently, almost gingerly, to the delicate letters carved into Chekov’s ass. “This is Nyota’s signature,” he said tightly.

“Well.” Kirk’s blue eyes gleamed at Spock. He didn’t turn back to Chekov, but went to Scotty’s scoreboard instead. “Let’s give the guy some points.”


	2. Chapter 2

THURSDAY

Chekov woke up after only a few hours of sleep to go to the student infirmary as soon as it opened. He didn’t want any unnecessary attention paid to his wounds. He needn’t have worried: the attendant asked no questions; she must be used to all sorts of unexplainable injuries suffered by cadets. She ran a dermal regenerator over his cuts without comment, and instructed him to take it easy for a few days to avoid re-opening the incisions.

Chekov would have rather sat through class with the constant sting of his cuts reminding him of his victory, but he couldn’t risk being at less than full physical capacity if the brothers sprung some sort of task on him during the day. His classes passed without incident, and he headed back to his room to eat something and complete a few class assignments before the time came to leave for the evening’s activity. Vincent had left a paper note taped to Chekov’s desk: _Back late. You don’t know where I can get a goat, do you?_ Chekov didn’t bother to leave a reply.

At eighteen hundred hours, twenty-three minutes, Chekov received a cryptic message on his padd from an untraceable source. It read, simply, _Stay in your room. – DXT._

The message could mean DXT no longer wanted him as a pledge. He considered going to Delta House, to see if rush week festivities were continuing without him. He immediately dismissed the idea as childish. The message could be some sort of test. Chekov spent several minutes trying to find a code in the words before conceding there was none to find.

The message could have been sent by a rival hoping to disqualify him by making him miss an event. Chekov tried to trace the message to determine if it had been sent from a console inside Delta House, but the message’s author had covered his tracks perfectly. Chekov concluded that none of his peers had the skill for so thorough a job, and therefore the message must be authentic.

In moments like this, old doubts assailed him. Back home, he’d never been accepted by his more influential classmates. He’d been too young, too precocious, too devoted to his studies. He would not allow a similar failure this time. His success at the Academy would determine his career in the Imperial Fleet, therefore he must make the right connections. This message could not possibly be a rejection. He must simply wait to find out what the brothers wanted him to do. Then he would do it.

For a while he stood by the room’s small window, looking out at the flow of traffic on campus, but he saw no clues. Vincent hadn’t returned yet, and he hadn’t tried to contact Chekov again regarding his reason for needing livestock—presumably some task related to his own rush activities. Chekov attempted to concentrate on his theoretical physics homework, but found himself making careless, elementary mistakes in his calculations. He’d had little sleep in the past few days, between activities for DXT and keeping up with his schoolwork. He checked the lock on his door, adjusted his padd’s message alert to its loudest setting, and settled his head on his desk.  
\--

A loud noise jolted Chekov awake. His sleep-fogged brain struggled to take account of the situation: his room, darkness, a sliver of light from the open door that had been locked. Someone grabbed him from behind. A cloth bag was pulled over his head, and his hands were held at his sides. He felt the sting of a hypospray at his neck, heard the hiss of it deploying. Then nothing.  
\--

Chekov awoke in a moving vehicle. Something still covered his head, but his arms were bound only loosely. He was reasonable sure a real enemy would have confined him more securely. He felt the press of a hand against his back.

“He’s coming around.” Sulu’s voice.

Chekov relaxed marginally without realizing he’d done so. Something about Sulu’s proximity gave his body the message that he was safe. He _wasn’t_ , Chekov reminded himself fiercely. He wasn’t one of these brothers, at least not yet, so he had to keep his guard up. He tried to speak, to ask where they were, but whatever he’d been dosed with had muddled his speech.

“Just stay, Chekov. We’ll be there soon enough. Bones, didn’t you give him enough?”

“Looks like he metabolizes sedatives the same way he does alcohol. Damn teenagers.”

Though he couldn’t see, Chekov strained his ears for clues to where they were, in case he had to find his way back. The vehicle—he was fairly certain it was the Jeep he’d seen Sulu drive—turned right onto a rough road. Chekov heard the ping of gravel hitting the undercarriage. Chekov had seen a map of the area around campus; he remembered only four roads in the whole county remote enough to still boast charmingly archaic gravel. Two were service roads for disused Academy facilities. One wandered up into the mountains. The other ran around an abandoned reservoir that still held water. All were excellent places to dump a body.

The Jeep skidded to a stop. It swayed as Sulu and McCoy got out and slammed their doors. Another door opened. Someone grabbed Chekov by the back of the shirt and hauled him outside on wobbly legs. He struggled to make his limbs obey. If he was going to die, he wanted to do it on his feet.

“That’s the last,” someone said nearby.

“Listen up!” That was Kirk, shouting over a distance of ten yards or more. His voice rolled and echoed; they must be in a large, open space: a field, or an empty lot. Not the mountains, probably. “Tonight is about endurance. If you don’t have the physical and psychological fortitude to withstand a little rough treatment, how are you going to face down a hostile alien lifeform? The Imperial Fleet has no place for weakness, and neither does DXT. Now, when one of the brothers tells you to do something, what do you do?”

“Do it!” Chekov shouted. Around him, a handful of voices repeated the same thing.

“That’s right. Do it. And keep doing it until a brother tells you otherwise. Let’s go, boys!”

Hands grabbed Chekov and pulled him away. Judging from the shouting and other commotion nearby, Chekov imagined the other rushes getting similar treatment. A hand on his chest stopped him. Someone tore off the hood, leaving him blinking under a bright spotlight. In front of him appeared a brother he recognized but couldn’t put a name to.

“Clothes off!” he yelled. When Chekov hesitated, the man shoved him and sent him stumbling back. “Go on, strip!”

Chekov pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it. As he unbuttoned his pants with hands still clumsy from the sedative, he glanced around to try to get his bearings. He caught a glimpse of grass at the edge of the light, then darkness, and somewhere beyond, another pool of light.

The brother grabbed Chekov’s hair and pulled his head back. “Did I tell you to pause for a fucking sight-seeing tour? No, I said take your fucking clothes off. Do it! Do it! Do it!”

Chekov stripped the rest of the way as fast as he was able. He fumbled with the laces on his boots until his handler got impatient, shoved him to the ground—it was soft, springy grass—and pulled them off himself. Chekov had no time to worry about his nudity before the shouting resumed.

“Move! Move!” The brother grabbed Chekov by the hair again, forcing him to scramble to his feet to follow. He steered Chekov over to a shallow poly-synthetic tub. Chekov stumbled forward over the edge and immediately lost his footing on the slippery surface. He landed heavily on his side in a shallow pool of something slick. He planted his hands to try to steady himself, but they only slid out from under him.

“Chrimeny, it’s like a tragedy,” said a familiar, accented voice. “Get the hell out of there.” Hands gripped him under the armpits, dragged him out of the tub, and deposited him on some kind of plastic sheeting. Scotty’s face loomed over him. “Up. Got to keep moving, lad.”

Chekov stumbled to his feet with a minimum of slipping and sliding. Scotty pointed behind him. “Get going. Gotta get across.”

Chekov looked out the obstacle course laid out before him and suppressed a cringe.

“Move,” Scotty said. Menace underlay his normally jovial tone. “Or I’ll see that you do.”

Chekov jolted forward. The first obstacle was a long set of elevated bars. Chekov jumped for the first bar. His fingers caught, but were too slippery to hold. He splashed down into a knee deep pit of mud. He glanced up at the bars, impossibly high, then at the distant edge of the mud pit. He gritted his teeth and began to slog through. “That’s the spirit!” Scott called from behind him. “Get your arse moving!”

The challenge was just the beginning. When Chekov cleared the last obstacle on the course—dragged himself over a wooden wall as best he could while naked and covered with oil and mud—Spock stood ready to douse him with a hose. The water hit Chekov hard, relentlessly, so cold his breath fled. Wet and miserable, Chekov shivered in the cold night air as Bones put him through a seemingly unending series of pushups and jumping jacks, all while keeping up a steady stream of verbal abuse.

“You’re a weakling, Chekov. A useless runt. DXT doesn’t have time for freeloaders who can’t keep up. You call that a pushup? Back down and start the count over. What, are you tired, poor baby? Want it to stop? Fine. Quit, then. Just give up. You can’t do it. What makes you think DXT needs the likes of you, you arrogant little shit? You’ve got nothing we could possibly want. Why are you even trying? Don’t you dare slow down, you lazy fuck.”

The exercise warmed Chekov, and McCoy’s words gave him fuel for anger to sustain him. He had completed half the latest set of demanded pushups when McCoy shoved a boot against his hip to push him onto his back. “You’re done. Get up.”

Chekov scrambled to his feet as quickly as his bruised and weary body would allow. He realized McCoy might be kicking him out, judging him unworthy. He began to protest, but McCoy grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him out of the blinding light. “Move, kid.”

More hands took hold of him; unfamiliar faces swam in his vision. Someone grabbed him by the jaw. Cloth—coarse and dark—covered his eyes and was tied behind his head: a blindfold. Hands shoved and prodded him across a stretch of grass. Then someone grabbed his wrists, someone else his ankles, and he was pulled off his feet, swinging between two men.

Though the urge to struggle welled up in him like a flood, he made himself relax. All this was only to scare him, to see if he would break. The men swung him side to side three times, and then let go together. He tried to relax as he fell, knowing his landing would hurt less than if he were tense. But he kept falling past when he should have hit the ground. He _had_ failed, and they were disposing of him. In a moment he would smash into a pile of rocks at the bottom of a cliff. They were going to leave him there to die, broken and naked.

Panic burst inside him, and he reached for the blindfold. Before he could touch it, he landed with a splash. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and sent him scrambling. Water. The reservoir, then.

Chekov flailed for a moment, disoriented, and uncertain which way was up. Despite the burning in his lungs—just fear, he told himself; he could hold his breath longer than this—he made himself stop struggling for a second and float. There—the surface was that way. He pumped his arms and kicked hard until he broke the surface of the water. He sucked in a deep breath. The water was cold, and the air seemed colder. He clawed at the blindfold, but the knot was wet, and his fingers were clumsy. He sank beneath the surface momentarily, then kicked his way up again.

Chekov’s legs were already tired. He knew he was close to exhaustion. He remembered, suddenly, a painfully bright November morning on a childhood visit to Lake Baikal, when his cousin Yuri, who’d always been stupid, and jealous because of it, had pushed him from the bridge where they were fishing into freezing water. He thought he was going to die, then, with the icy water sapping the strength from his limbs. But he’d focused on the thought of Yuri’s ugly face, his vacant, gaping grin. He’d struggled to shore and punched Yuri until he begged for mercy and Chekov’s hands hurt too much to continue.

He wasn’t going to die here, either. If the brothers had wanted to kill him, he would be dead. This was just another test, and he would overcome it as he had all the others.

He stopped treading water for a few seconds, and caught the sound of voices over to his left. He struck out, swimming hard.

“Hey!” Something splashed in the water next to him. “Grab on!”

Chekov groped blindly toward the source of the splash. His hand tangled in a rope. He gripped it tight, then latched on with his other hand. He found himself dragged along until hands grabbed him and pulled him up onto semi-solid ground: a wooden surface that swayed with every movement of the people around him. A dock?

He sputtered out the remains of water he’d breathed in, and allowed himself a moment of reprieve to lay where he’d been dragged.

“Come on.” A hand squeezed his shoulder. “On your hands and knees.”

Sulu. Chekov recognized the voice and the touch that went along with it. Despite his body’s protests of exhaustion, Chekov managed to drag himself onto his knees and arrange himself as ordered. His muscles throbbed, his knees ached, but he remained still, waiting for orders.

He felt the surface rock under him and footsteps circled. “What do you think, Hikaru?” That was Kirk. Chekov could easily imagine the casual smirk he wore.

“He looks pathetic,” Sulu answered.

Chekov remained unmoving. He probably did look pathetic: naked, soaked, and shivering. After all the trials he’d endured tonight, he wasn’t about to protest mild criticism from two brothers whose approval he wanted above all others. Of course he wanted to impress Kirk: the president, the Empire’s golden boy, the man who could make or break his career.

Sulu, though. Sulu could help him in a different way. Chekov knew they had in common a certain love of destruction: a desire to see the world bleed. Sulu intrigued him and puzzled him in a way no one else had. Chekov would withstand any amount of torture to prove himself worthy of Sulu’s respect.

“Twenty-five strokes,” Kirk said.

Something flat and cool pressed against Chekov’s ass. Chekov had thought there might be a whip, but this felt like a paddle.

Sulu’s hand came to rest on his shoulder again. “Twenty-five. Count as I give them to you. You lose count, I start over. You move from this position, I start over. You scream, or say stop, we’re done. Understand?”

“Yes,” Chekov forced the word out through his suddenly dry throat.

“Good.” Sulu removed the steadying hand from Chekov’s shoulder.

Chekov tried to keep his attention on the points where his body contacted the ground: his knees against the grain of the wood, his hands splayed out, betraying his tenseness.

He thought he’d be prepared for the first blow. The paddle smacked against his skin with a resounding thwack. Pain sped through him like a flash of too-bright light. The impact sent him rocking forward. He had to gulp in a new breath before he could call out, “One.”

Something cold and solid—the edge of the paddle?—prodded the left cheek of his ass.

“That’s a really lovely shade of red. Carry on, Mr. Sulu.”

A blow landed almost immediately.

“Two,” said Chekov.

The blows rained down in a steady stream. Chekov found himself relaxing into a rhythm: feel the impact, take a breath, count, repeat. After the chaos and uncertainty of the past hour, the paddling was a relief. The regular, even blows built up a simmering energy in Chekov. The pain allowed him to keep his focus; he didn’t miss a number.

He could hear Sulu moving and breathing behind him. He wondered if Sulu was working up a sweat by beating him. He imagined the look on Sulu’s face as he worked, his fierce joy at inflicting pain. If Chekov became a brother, he might face more beatings from Sulu as the Discipline Coordinator. The thought sent an unexpected thrill of pleasure shivering through his body. The feeling seemed to resonate and amplify with the force of the next blow. Chekov’s cock grew heavy between his legs.

Sulu struck him again.

“Twenty-three.” Chekov tried to fix his attention anywhere but on the stroke of the paddle as an extension of Sulu’s powerful arm. The paddle slapped against Chekov’s skin, anchoring him deeper in full awareness of his body: wood under his fingertips, the smell of sweat and water, distant shouting, the throbbing of his rising erection, the dryness of his mouth as he croaked, “Twenty-four.”

Another impact rocked through him, sending him jerking forward, his cock swinging in the breeze. “Twenty-five.”

Sulu’s cool hand descended on the hot, bruised flesh of his ass and squeezed gently. “He’s so pale. Look at that.”

“Wait.” Kirk’s voice held a sharp note. “We’re not finished. Give him fifteen more.”

“More?”

Chekov didn’t dare glance over his shoulder to watch them, but he caught Sulu’s incredulity.

“Yeah,” Kirk drawled. “Make it an even forty. Unless you think he can’t take it.”

A silent moment stretched between them. Chekov could easily imagine their staring contest over the prize kneeling at their feet.

“He’ll take it.” Sulu moved, and the dock tipped beneath them.

Kirk dropped to a crouch at Chekov’s head. Deft fingers tugged at Chekov’s blindfold to pull it up and off. Chekov blinked water out of his eyes, then opened them to the sight of Kirk silhouetted against the dark expanse of the reservoir.

Kirk braced his arm against Chekov’s shoulder. “I’ll hold him. Wouldn’t want him getting off to easy, would we, Roo?”

“No,” Sulu said. He sounded amused. “Fifteen, Chekov. Count.”

Chekov heard the whistle of the paddle swinging through the air too late to do anything but take the blow. With Kirk’s hand on his shoulder, the impact landed hard. Chekov hadn’t realized he’d been leaning forward with each blow to absorb some of the force. The pain hadn’t quite finished ringing through him when he forced out his count. “One.”

Sulu landed another precise stroke, lower this time, at the juncture of thigh and ass.

“Two.”

If Chekov closed his eyes, he could imagine himself alone with Sulu, being punished for some minor transgression of fraternity rules.

“Three.”

Sulu would touch him appreciatively, like he had after the last set. With reverence.

“Four.”

If Chekov was lucky, Sulu would put down the paddle and let him feel the sting of his bare hand instead.

“Five.”

Spanking would turn into groping, and Sulu would discover the effect his punishment had on Chekov.

“Six.”

Sulu would have to punish Chekov harder for his indiscretion: spanking him until he begged for mercy.

“Seven.”

Now Chekov’s erection throbbed insistently. With each blow, his hips jerked up urgently against empty air.

“Eight.”

He wondered whether the other brothers would consider him weak if they noticed him reveling in such pain.

“Nine.”

He felt certain that Sulu, for one, would find his arousal enticing.

“Ten.”

Each stroke sent him deeper into his fantasy as pain and pleasure tangled and twined.

“Eleven.”

A blow landed sharply across his hole, and Chekov bit back a yelp.

“Twelve.”

Kirk grabbed him by the jaw and wrenched his head up. “Look at me.”

The next stroke landed solidly on top of an already-bruised spot, but Chekov kept eye contact.

“Thirteen.”

Kirk had to notice Chekov’s labored breath, his pupils spread wide to blot out the soft brown of his eyes, the stray drops of sweat at his temple, but these things were easily explained by the punishment he was enduring. Chekov stared at Kirk defiantly, willing him to overlook his arousal.

“Fourteen.”

Kirk wrapped his hand around the back of Chekov’s neck, squeezed hard, and leaned in close to his ear. “I see what this does to you,” he whispered. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

The final blow landed harder than any of its predecessors. It sent Chekov blundering forward into Kirk’s chest. He managed to shout, “Fifteen.”

Kirk hauled up him upright. “Roo, take him.”

For once, Sulu didn’t argue. He pulled Chekov backwards into his lap with an arm wrapped securely around his chest. Chekov’s hot, sore ass chafed against Sulu’s pants. He could feel the shape of Sulu’s hard-on pressing into his back.

Kirk stood to loom over them. “Chekov. Finish it,” he instructed. He nudged Chekov’s legs farther apart with his booted foot and looked pointedly at Chekov’s straining cock.

Sulu tightened his hold on Chekov. “Do it.” The low rumble of demand in his voice made Chekov squirm.

Chekov cupped a hand around his dick. He avoided looking at Kirk. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of Sulu all around him. He was already balancing on the edge. He rocked back against Sulu’s cock, eliciting a surprised intake of breath that had Chekov arching up in Sulu’s grip. Jets of come spurted over his fingers, his belly. All memory of tension and pain bled out of him. He slumped back against Sulu’s chest.

When Chekov opened his eyes, Kirk stared coolly down at them. Chekov felt an instinctual thrill of danger at the look in Kirk’s eyes.

Sulu’s fingers swept through the trails of come on Chekov’s skin. His hand came up, and he pressed his fingers to Chekov’s mouth. Without looking away from Kirk, Chekov parted his lips to draw in Sulu’s fingers. He sucked on them languorously, and was rewarded by Sulu cinching his arm tighter around him and by Kirk’s eyes widening fractionally while the rest of his expression remained immovable.

When Sulu’s fingers were clean, Chekov let them slowly slip from his mouth. He looked up at Kirk with a cherubic smile.

“Good boy,” Sulu said.

Kirk gave a disapproving or possibly appreciative grunt.

Pressed close as he was, Chekov felt a chuckle rise up in Sulu’s chest, but Sulu didn’t give it voice. He only smiled wanly, a pale imitation of Chekov’s expression. At the same moment, they abandoned Kirk to look at each other. Something passed between them: a spontaneous union against an outside force, and Chekov felt the thrill of having someone on his side.

“Get him some clothes, Roo, and send him back him,” Kirk cut in. “We’ve got more to do here.”

Sulu kept his smile when he looked up at Kirk. “Sure thing, Jimmy.”

Then Kirk offered a hand to help Sulu up, Chekov was left on the ground, and he remembered again: they were brothers, not him. Not yet, anyway.  
\--

FRIDAY

Chekov moved stiffly all day. His ass was the sorest part of him, but he had many other bruises and cuts in inconvenient places after the previous night’s activities. Over the lunch period he went to the gym to try to stretch strained muscles, but every time he moved he felt a pleasant sting from his abused ass. The picture of Sulu beating him came to mind too easily. He forwent the remainder of his workout to jerk off in the showers.

At Delta House, the remaining rushes—half the contingent that had shown on Monday—were loading into cars when Chekov arrived. Riley and a few other guys were piling into Sulu’s Jeep. Turning, Sulu caught sight of Chekov. He looked for a moment—just long enough for Chekov to feel certain Sulu had seen him—then got into his vehicle without further acknowledgement.

Chekov ended up with McCoy in Spock’s sleek vehicle. They roared toward their destination at breakneck speed, with McCoy complaining the entire way about Spock’s penchant for hairpin turns and “this tin death trap.” Chekov sat alone in the backseat, his awareness at a simmering alert level. Knowing that he couldn’t predict what challenge the brothers had planned, he hadn’t bothered to speculate. He had brought his weapons—aside from his grandfather’s knife the Lambdas hadn’t returned—and trusted the rest to his wits. He watched the road outside diligently for clues to their destination. Campus and city buildings turned to trees at the roadside, then to sand and open sky and light reflecting off the ocean’s waves.

Spock parked at the end of a row of other cars. Beyond the vehicles, a gentle slope morphed from grass to sand and ran toward the water. A few dozen men already dotted the beach. Spock and McCoy got out of the car and continued bickering. Chekov crept from his seat and stood at the top of the knoll.

On the beach below, Kirk poked at a roaring fire with a large stick. Scotty had his arm slung around Kevin Riley’s shoulders, and by the way he gesticulated with the beer bottle in his hand, he seemed to be giving a detailed report of a sexual encounter. Sulu, clad only in a baggy pair of swim shorts, hit a ball over a raised net, then bumped fists with another brother on his side of the set, apparently celebrating some victory in an archaic athletic competition.

“What is this?” Chekov asked.

McCoy appeared at his side, gripping a six-pack of beer. “It’s a beach barbeque, kid. You’re supposed to have fun. Think you can handle that?” He set off down the hill.

Spock took his place. “One becomes accustomed to such things with practice.” He walked off, leaving Chekov little choice but to join the festivities.

Chekov wandered down onto the sand and kept to the edges of the party. The barbeque certainly didn’t look like a pretext for another grueling challenge. Brothers and rushes alike talked, laughed, and passed out drinks from hover coolers Scotty loudly bragged about inventing. Kirk threw driftwood on the bonfire, then ran into the ocean to cool himself. The game with the ball continued.

The feeling that danger might appear at any moment never quite left Chekov, but eventually he conceded that he must participate in social interaction tonight; that seemed to be the extent of this challenge’s requirements.

He’d been watching Sulu and his friends hitting their ball back and forth over a net. He didn’t know the name of the game, but it seemed simple enough. He stripped off his shirt since, after all, it seemed to be something of a requirement, and stepped toward the line of rope that delimitated the court. “Is this game for brothers only?”

Sulu caught the ball. He exchanged a glance with the brother next to him—a Tellarite whose name Chekov hadn’t learned—before nodding slowly. “If you think you can keep up.”

“Brothers versus rushes,” Chekov said, just to see Sulu’s reaction.

Laughter broke free of Sulu, unguarded and genuinely surprised. “You’re on. Get yourself some teammates.”

Chekov grabbed Riley first, and then lured several others into the game by insinuating that the brothers were conducting a clandestine test. When they spread out on the court facing Sulu and four other sleek, well-muscled brothers, Chekov had to admit his teammates didn’t look like much. Then again, he reminded himself, they had to have survived the week’s trials to be here, so they couldn’t be total incompetents.

The game moved more quickly than Chekov had anticipated. Sulu seemed to be at the net for every play, sending the ball slamming down into the sand or careening at the unprotected heads of his opponents. Chekov tried to make up for his lack of experience with speed, hustling all over the court, diving past his reach for hard saves, and getting a face full of sand and bruised knees for his trouble. In the end, the rushes lost. Badly. Chekov couldn’t feel too upset; the brothers had seen him put up a valiant fight against long odds, and he could be satisfied with that for now.

Kirk, who’d wandered over from the fire to watch the end of the game, ruffled Sulu’s hair affectionately.

“Atta boy, Sulu.” Kirk winked at Chekov. “See, they play as a team.” He waved his hands at the brothers on that side of the net. “That’s their advantage. You could learn something.” Then he dragged Sulu away for a celebratory drink.

By the time the moon had risen high over the ocean, guys were loading into cars. The fire had died down to a pile of embers and smoldering driftwood. The party was, for all intents and purposes, over. Unless the brothers were planning some surprise final trial—which seemed unlikely, considering that Spock had half-carried a thoroughly inebriated Kirk to his car while dragging a complaining and ill-looking McCoy by the wrist—the rush period was over, too.

Chekov stood near the water’s edge, replaying the week’s events in his head and looking for flaws in his performance. He knew he’d done well, but doubt twined around his confidence, choking it out. This was Delta Xi Theta: the elite, the best. They gave and expected loyalty for life. They didn’t need to recruit anyone who couldn’t bring assets to the brotherhood. They didn’t need an underaged, scrawny masochist with no political connections. He dropped back to sit on the sand. He had done all he knew how to do.

Chekov hadn’t heard Sulu approach, so he started when Sulu sat down next to him. He attributed the mistake to the rushing of the waves and tried not to think about how gracefully and silently Sulu could move, or how, subconsciously, Chekov had begun to consider him _safe_.

“Have you enjoyed your week?”

Chekov mulled over an appropriate response before settling on, “I would do it again if I had to.”

Sulu looked out at the ocean. Clouds unfurled across the sky, blocking the wan light of the moon and throwing shadows on Sulu’s face. After a few silent moments, Sulu said, “Voting is tonight. Then the suspense will be over.”

Chekov snatched up a stick of charred driftwood. In the sand before him, he sketched lines and angles, comforting in their familiarity. Abstract lines turning to physics equations: delta x, delta y. The equation for how fast things fall toward other things. He let the stick fall to the sand, looked over at Sulu, and spread his knees apart fractionally. “Is there something I can do for you? To help my chances, I mean.”

Sulu stared at him so intently that Chekov felt sure he was sold. Then Sulu shook his head. “I’m not allowed to talk about pledges.” He leaned in close and braced his hand on Chekov’s thigh. His voice was no more than a whisper, inches from Chekov’s ear. “If you don’t get in, then you’re nothing to us, and no one cares what I do to you. If you pledge, then you’ll be expected to make accommodations for senior brothers. I get you either way.” He pulled away and turned his face back out to sea.

“You are used to getting what you want,” Chekov said tightly.

“We all are. “ Sulu’s smile was not unkind. Chekov began to suspect he was being teased. “That’s why you want to be one of us.”

“I choose what I want very carefully. I only want the best.”

“Lucky for you our interests coincide, then.”

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

They sat in companionable silence as the tide slipped in to lap at the edge of the equations Chekov had drawn. Two objects falling toward each other, and no way to calculate the force with which they’d hit. Delta brotherhood lasted for life. They undoubtedly had rules about relationships and expectations about the conduct of their officers. Chekov hadn’t imagined pledging at DXT might mean giving up anything. Now it seemed, even if they offered him a bid and he accepted, there may be a price to pay.

“Hikaru. I want to ask you something. Off the record.”

Sulu’s eyes cut quickly to Chekov, then away so fast that Chekov wasn’t sure they’d moved at all. “What makes you think I’d answer something off the record?”

“I’ve been watching you all week. I know what kind of man you are.” Chekov knew Sulu couldn’t have missed his interest. Chekov didn’t necessarily consider himself a good judge of people. He preferred exact sciences, like physics. Sentient behavior adhered to few rules and perpetrated exceptions at will. He’d had ample opportunity to assess Sulu this week. Usually, Chekov trusted his observations. But this line of questioning held great risk: if Sulu thought Chekov’s question childish or weak, it could hurt his chances with DXT. But no. Sulu wouldn’t laugh at him. He wouldn’t deride him just for asking a question.

“What kind of man am I?” Sulu didn’t move, didn’t lean forward suggestively or pull away defensively. He simply waited.

“One who would answer the question.” Chekov’s certainty faltered as Sulu continued to watch him without blinking. “It is not important.” Chekov couldn’t take the risk. He wasn’t sure.

“You wanted to ask me. That’s enough.” Sulu stood. “Come on. We should get back to campus.”

They were the last two to leave the beach. Sulu didn’t play the radio on the ride home. Instead, they both kept their eyes fixed on the road ahead and passed the trip in silence. He dropped Chekov off at Archer Hall with a sharp nod and a crisp, “Good night.”

Chekov lay staring up at the ceiling, listening to his roommate recount in great detail the Orion-slave-themed luau he’d attended for Tau Kappa Phi. He hadn’t figured out a way to get the green paint off his skin.

With the white noise of Vincent’s chatter blocking out thought, Chekov managed to drift off to sleep.  
\--

SATURDAY

In retrospect, Chekov should not have been so surprised when he received a bid from DXT. The alert of an incoming message on his padd woke him early. He realized as soon as he heard the sound, and the sender’s name--Kirk, James T—only confirmed what he already knew. He read the message twice through.

Vincent’s padd chirped, waking him. He scrambled blearily to open the message while Chekov watched. Vincent grinned and held up the padd. “I got in!” he said. His grin shone white against his still green-dyed skin. “I’m a Tau Kappa Phi!”

“Well done.” Chekov hid his smile as he stood to get ready for the day. Vincent was nothing to him now. Chekov had brothers of his own, and he went to accept his place.  
\--

Across the campus that night, fraternities would be throwing parties to welcome their new pledges, and cadets, male and female, first years and even recent graduates, would attend. No party drew as large a crowd as the one at Delta House. The curious crowded inside to catch a glimpse of the new crop of DXTs.

At the party, Chekov did what was expected of him: he drank, he circulated through the party, he let himself be seen. He also took careful note of the attendees; it wouldn’t hurt to know who was curious about DXT’s decisions. This was what Chekov had hoped for, planned for, since his arrival on campus. He had weeks of pledge training ahead before he’d be inducted as a full-fledged brother, but that didn’t daunt Chekov. DXT had chosen him.

Chekov stood in the kitchen, refilling his cup, when a slow, rich voice spoke his mother tongue.

“Molodets, mal’chik.”

“Thank you.” Chekov set his cup on the counter and turned around to face Uhura. “You had some role in my success.”

“Hm.” Uhura smiled warmly, seeing right through his flattery. “I have something for you.” She held out her hand, bearing Chekov’s dagger. “Gaila wanted to keep it as a souvenir. I decided that if you earned a pledge from DXT, you deserved to have it returned.”

Chekov took the blade with a polite nod. He deftly slipped it into the sheath at his back, which had felt uncomfortably empty since Wednesday. “I am glad to be found worthy,” he said with a smirk.

Spock entered the kitchen silently. “It seems you’ve taken a particular interest in this pledge, Nyota.” His arm settled around Uhura’s waist with more than his usual grace.

Her answering smile held none of the fear Chekov had seen most cadets display in answering Spock’s cryptic insinuations. “I’m curious to see what he’ll do now that you’ve brought him into the fold.” Her eyes glided over to Chekov. “I imagine he’ll do your brotherhood credit.”

“There were those who spoke eloquently in his favor at the voting. It seems he’s caught the attention of more than one.” So saying, Spock steered Uhura from the room.

Some of the brothers had spoken about him at the voting last night? Chekov had vaguely imagined a balloting process of some kind, but he should have guessed there’d have been some discussion. He wondered who had argued in his favor. He had a suspicion.

In the bustle and noise of the party, Chekov spent the better part of an hour searching the house until he came upon Sulu. He and Jim Kirk stood in the corner of the basement lounge, engaged in a friendly, somewhat drunken debate.

“—any situation where a space jump would be _remotely_ necessary,” Sulu was saying.

“But the training would fix that. It’s a much maligned technique!” Kirk caught sight of Chekov approaching through the crowd and raised his nearly empty glass. “There’s a refill upstairs with my name on it,” he told Sulu.

On his way across the room, Kirk punched Chekov’s arm playfully. “Go get him.”

Chekov went to lean against the wall where Kirk had been, and smiled up at Sulu. He was feeling all the pleasant buzz of a significant amount of alcohol mixed with the heady relief of success in the wake of five days worth of nerve-wracking trials. Judging from Sulu’s grin, he suffered from a similar euphoria. Around them, music thumped to a steady beat. Party-goers laughed and shouted and pressed up against each other, spirits buoyed by the pervasive festive mood.

Chekov dispensed with pretense. “Do you want to go someplace quieter?”

“Yeah.” Sulu downed the rest of his drink in one long pull and threw the empty cup on the floor. “Come on.” He grabbed Chekov’s wrist and pulled him along. They went up a narrow back stairway to the third floor. By virtue of being a brotherhood officer, Sulu had a room to himself. He flung open the door at the end of the hallway and grandly gestured for Chekov to precede him.

Chekov obliged.

The room was not large, but it was immaculate. Books lined the shelves above the desk, plants stood in a tidy row along the windowsill, and the bed was made with military precision. Above the bed—Chekov’s ass clenched and his cock twitched to see it—on the wall above the headboard was mounted Sulu’s paddle, with the letters DXT burned into its wooden surface. Chekov hoped it was the same paddle Sulu had used on him two nights ago at the reservoir dock.

“What do you think?” Sulu asked from the doorway.

Chekov sat down on the bed, looking pointedly at the paddle, then back at Sulu. “It is very nice.”

Sulu closed the door, slowly and deliberately, and punched a button on the key pad to secure it. When he turned back, his eyes held the predatory gleam Chekov had come to look forward to.

“You thought I would not be fit, at first, didn’t you?” Chekov asked. “But I have made it here.”

“I never thought you wouldn’t be fit. You?” Sulu’s laugh tumbled forth, loose from the alcohol. “Jim and I talked about you after move-in day. We knew there was a good chance you could be one of us.” He swaggered toward Chekov until he loomed over him. “We even talked about which one of us would get the pleasure of breaking you in.”

It was Chekov’s turn for laughter. The alcohol made him bold, too. He leaned back on his hands and let his legs fall open. “You think I do not know how to choose? I know how to seduce someone, thank you very much.”

This time, they both laughed uproariously. Chekov felt drunker than he’d ever been: buzzing with the effects of Scotty’s bootleg hooch and high on the thrill of being alone with Sulu.

Sulu sat down heavily on the bed next to Chekov, knees weak with laughter and drink. Their laughter faded into one silent moment. Sulu looked at Chekov intently, as if trying to read something in his face. Then he grabbed Chekov by the back of the neck to pull him into a rough kiss. Sulu felt just as Chekov had imagined: hard and challenging, and more intoxicating than vodka.

When they parted to breathe, Sulu maintained his grip, keeping Chekov close.

“I told you last night I’d have you either way,” Sulu said quietly. “I lied. We don’t use each other like that, not even pledges. We have to be safe in our own house, understand?”

“Yes,” Chekov said, although he didn’t, really. He couldn’t conceive of a place where he didn’t have to watch his own back, waking and sleeping. Sulu believed it, though, and that stirred a strange hope in Chekov.

“Besides.” Sulu pulled Chekov closer, his mouth to Chekov’s ear. “I know you’d let me have you willingly.” He shoved Chekov onto his back. He braced a hand on Chekov’s shoulder, as if there was any need to hold him down. “I suspected it from the start, but on Thursday I was sure.”

Sulu glanced up at the paddle. Chekov followed his gaze. Sulu’s eyes snapped back to Chekov’s face, catching the hunger written there. He smiled. “Not tonight. That’s only for official house business. I won’t use it on you unless you’re sentenced to discipline.”

Chekov couldn’t look away from the paddle. His cock strained uncomfortably in his pants at the memory of how it felt slamming into the bare skin of his ass. Sulu’s touch, his smell, his proximity closed in on Chekov, sharpening the memory. “How…” He swallowed hard. “How does a brother get sentenced to discipline?”

“Many reasons.” Sulu’s free hand trailed down Chekov’s chest, then ghosted over his clothed erection. “Perhaps he’s failed at some task, or neglected a duty. He could have done something to put DXT’s name at risk, or broken one of the brotherhood rules. Or maybe he just pissed Kirk off. Whatever they’ve done, Kirk sends them to me to take their punishment.” Sulu ground his hand down on Chekov’s trapped cock.

Chekov caught his gasp behind his teeth and managed to keep still. “How is the punishment administered?”

“If the infraction is particularly severe, Kirk will summon the whole brotherhood.” Sulu began dragging his hand up and down the length of Chekov’s covered dick. “There’s a room downstairs, a little amphitheater where we all assemble. Sometimes they don’t even know which of them is going to be punished. Kirk calls the offending brother forward, reads the charge, and pronounces the sentence.”

Chekov could imagine the scene, the thrill of anticipation of violence. He pushed his hips up to feel more of Sulu’s hand against him. Breathlessly, he asked, “Then the punishment begins?”

Sulu nodded. He watched Chekov’s reactions carefully as he spun his story and played with Chekov’s body. What he saw seemed to please him. “The penitent strips and kneels on the floor. Sometimes I blindfold or gag him, sometimes not. I make sure to choose the right tool for each punishment. Sometimes I’ll use a crop, or a flogger. Sometimes a knife. I’ve used a brand, before.” Chekov shuddered beneath Sulu’s hand, and Sulu chuckled warmly. “As you always say, it is best to relate the retribution to the crime, yes?”

Chekov nodded helplessly, and Sulu rewarded him with a gentle squeeze of his cock.

“Mostly I use the paddle. It’s a symbol of brotherhood.” He rubbed his hand faster, up and down the front of Chekov’s pants. “You know how that feels. You took it like you loved it, and you wanted to beg for more. Didn’t you, Pavel? Didn’t you?”

Chekov’s whole body stiffened, arching silently as his climax burst upon him like an unexpected wave. His hands fisted in the sheets, wrinkling the perfect precision of the sheets. His hips jerked uncontrollably as he came, then went lax under Sulu’s hand.

Chekov had only a moment to revel in the wrung-out pleasure before Sulu pulled him up by the hair.

“Did I say you could come?” Beneath the menace, Sulu looked smug.

Chekov shook his head. His reflexes seemed slow, now, dulled by his release and the lingering alcohol in his blood. When Sulu shoved him off the bed, Chekov stumbled with none of his usual grace.

“Take your pants down,” Sulu barked.

Chekov moved to comply almost instantly. It seemed he’d learned to follow orders this week, at least. He fumbled his belt open, and he’d barely pulled down the zipper on his pants when Sulu grabbed him by the hips.

Sulu pulled Chekov’s pants and briefs down to his thighs in one efficient tug. He snatched Chekov’s knife out of its sheath and set it lovingly on the bedside table. Then he unceremoniously shoved Chekov over his lap, leaving Chekov’s bare ass exposed.

“Count.” Sulu’s voice sounded lower than usual. His bare hand fell hard against Chekov’s ass.

“One.” When Chekov rocked forward, he felt Sulu’s erection digging into him.

Each time Sulu hit his ass, Chekov angled himself to rub against Sulu’s dick. His own cock, rocking against Sulu’s hard thigh, was rising again already.

Sulu paused after each set of five to rub Chekov’s abused ass and whisper obscenities in his ear. After forty strokes, Sulu shoved him off his lap, onto his hands on knees on the floor. Sulu knelt over him and pushed Chekov’s shoulders down, leaving his ass on display. Sulu tore his pants open and stroked himself furiously. Ropey stripes of his come landed on Chekov’s upturned ass.

Chekov could imagine the picture it made: Sulu’s pearly white semen against the vivid red of his beaten flesh. With a groan, Chekov wrapped his hand around his dick and reached a second release, spilling against the floor.

Sulu stood, stripped off his shirt, and patted most of the mess off Chekov’s skin. He tossed the shirt toward the corner and flopped backwards onto the bed, beckoning for Chekov to join him. Chekov kicked off his boots, set aside the knife in his hidden ankle sheath, tugged his pants and underwear the rest of the way off and went to curl up at Sulu’s side. He looked up at the paddle mounted above them, and in seconds had surrendered to sleep.

\--

“Roo!”

Chekov sat straight up in bed. Before his mind could catch up to where he was and what was happening, Sulu had grabbed him by the arm to hold him still.

“Hikaru, you up?” Kirk. His voice echoed in from the hallway. A few beeps sounded on the keypad outside, and then the door slid open. Kirk stopped short at the sight of Sulu and Chekov mostly naked in bed together. “Right.” Far from seeming embarrassed, he simply looked appraisingly at Chekov. “Nice.”

“You need something, Jim?” Sulu stood, partially blocking Chekov’s view of Kirk, and began to button his pants.

“Not right now,” Jim said. He stepped closer to the bed to address Chekov. “You should drink some water. You look like you’re going to puke.” He shook his head at Sulu. “You should really take better care of him.” He headed for the open door, and turned back when he reached it. “And call me next time. I want to watch.” He slipped out into the hall and shut the door behind him.

Chekov laughed weakly. Every one of his muscles was tensed for a fight, and he had to force himself to relax. He had a hard time remembering he wasn’t in danger here.

“Don’t worry about him,” Sulu said. He sat down on the bed next to Chekov and rested a hand on the back of his neck. “He’s just screwing with us. Jim’s sense of humor.”

“He will not be angry? There are rules, I’m sure. I don’t want to--.”

“It’s fine.” Sulu’s grip tightened, which Chekov found strangely reassuring. “We’re brothers, now. You have a way to go before you earn full membership, but you’re with us. You’re ours.”

Chekov nodded. If he heard Sulu say that a few more times, with that amount of conviction behind it, he might start to believe. He sat still for a minute, enjoying the warm weight of Sulu’s hand against his skin. “I want to ask what I did not ask. At the beach.”

“I thought you might,” Sulu said. Chekov couldn’t see his face, but he sounded amused.

Chekov turned to face him, and was glad when Sulu didn’t relinquish his hold. His touch served as a link between them, giving Chekov encouragement to speak his mind. “You have this.” He gestured around them. “All your brothers. Do you ever feel… lonely?”

Surprise showed on Sulu’s face. Perhaps he hadn’t been expecting that question. “It’s a lonely world,” he said slowly. Then he shook his head at his too-easy answer. He tugged Chekov toward  
him, settling Chekov’s back against his chest and circling his arms low over Chekov’s waist.

Chekov understood: speaking the truth face to face was difficult. They sat like that in silence for so long that Chekov thought Sulu might not say more. At last, Sulu said, very quietly, “Yes.” He leaned his face against Chekov’s curls and breathed in their scent. “Yes, I feel lonely. Even in the brotherhood, where we can count on each other, there are some things I can’t share.”

“Being in the brotherhood does not change this,” Chekov concluded. “We are destined to be alone.”

“I didn’t say that.” Sulu’s arms tightened around Chekov.

Chekov turned in the circle of Sulu’s arms and pressed a kiss to Sulu’s lips. “I think I understand,” he said softly. He held Sulu’s eyes for a moment, and then climbed off the bed to retrieve his clothes.

“Come on.” Sulu got up, too, and pulled on a fresh shirt. “We’ll get breakfast off campus.”

“Should we ask the other brothers?”

Sulu shook his head. “We’ll come back to them. Right now, I want you. Just you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Specific content advisory:
> 
> mention of attempted non-con, mild bloodplay, paddling, spanking, implied underage, mentions of torture, forced nudity, attempted murder


End file.
